"Tobacco, Angst, Alcohol, Women, and Violence"
aka "Jack and Sandy Go Out to Get Tanked"
Starring: Sand and Starman
Date: The Week of Sept. 30, 1999


Long distance to Jack Knight: Sanderson thumps your door.
From afar, Jack Knight calls, somewhat muted "Come in..."

The StarDust Room ~T~ Titans Island
        This room has all the essentials and modern conveniences. A door
to a washroom in one corner, a small kitchen space in another. A plain bed
and a dresser against opposite walls. It's obviously newly furnished, but
shows little signs of personal taste or decor. The only items visible is a
small napsack of clothes at the foot of the bed.
         It's fairly apparent that whoever is staying in here either has
just moved in, or has very little personal items to speak of.

Jack:
        The young man before you is 20-something, with dark wavy hair, a
little mussed by the wide, thick black goggles he is currently wearing on
top of his head. His eyes are dark, and they are framed by the early
appearance of laugh-lines, giving the impression of a somewhat wry
personality. His sideburns are a little longer, and seem carefully
manicured, the guy obviously cares about his personal appearance. His day
or two growth of goatee stubble also give the impression that he's a busy
individual and might be prone for long nights out enjoying himself. He is
very handsome, and must be popular with the ladies. Both ears are pierced,
with silver hoops, as is one eyebrow.
         He is currently wearing a black, silk weave button up shirt with
what appears to be an oriental pattern. The shirt is open down to about
it's middle, giving a partial view of what appears to be an elaborate
patterned tattoo (a star pattern) on the left side of his chest. He is
also wearing a thick leather jacket, which adds to his already wiry yet
somewhat impressive musculature. From the back, the jacket can be seen to
display a design similar to both the tattoo on his chest, and the pin he
wears on his lapel. His jeans are somewhat loose, yet they also accent
what appears to be powerful legs. On his feet, his worn Dr. Martens boots
pledge a somewhat rebellious past.


Sanderson:
        A tall young man of about 24, Sanderson is well built and quite
weathered. His sandy blond hair is wiry and unruly; he looks like he could
use a shave, and his bright cornflower-blue eyes are already crinkled at
the corners. Instead of your standard heroic square jaw, the man has a
moderately pointed chin; a distinct widow's peak at his hairline lets a
stray curl fall onto his forehead.
        Covering his head and shading his eyes, presently, is a battered
tan fedora - there're a couple of small pieces of wrinkled paper sticking
out from the band. On his back is a beige canvas satchel, patched in
places, and discolored in others. His jacket, too, is a worn tan color;
his shirt's an off-white, coarse linen. Actually, everything about him,
except for his eyes, is rather sand-colored. Tough canvas dungarees cover
his legs, and his feet are shod in brown steel-toed boots.

The room is dark, pitch black even. The shutters are shut, no lamps or
lights on. Upon immediately entering the room, Sand's eyes may have to
adjust. Jack Knight is not readily apparent inside.

Entering slowly, and immediately blinking, Sanderson squints and leaves
the door open, letting the light from the hallway spill in. "Yo," he says,
trying to peer through the darkness. "Jack?"

A muffled call from what Sand can now see is a lump underneath the covers
of his bed. "What?" is the gruff reply. Hoo boy. Jackie's gonna be fun to
deal with today.

Sanderson's face immediately slackens, getting this look - like you can
see it in the dark, from under the covers, but hell - like, 'Ah, swift.'
He walks in further, and kicks Jack's bed unceremoniously. "Rouse your
ass," he demands with a touch of artificial cheerfulness. "If you're going
to feel sorry for yourself, you may as well do it in style."

Jack doesn't appear to move. "Aw come one Sand. I don't wanna." He still
says this from under the covers, reminiscent of a kid who has to go to
school. He pauses a moment, to let Sand go on his way. He's obviously
taking his impending trial pretty hard. This one will undoubtedly be
harder to endure then the last time he went to court for his costumed
exploits.

"Bullshit," says Sanderson, crossing his arms and standing resolutely.
"Throw on a shirt." So unsympathetic! No mercy at all. His eyes narrow
again; he's used to the dark by this point, but it's this...reflexive
action. Right. Time to corrupt some not-so-youthful youth. "It'll be
cathartic."

Throwing his covers off his head, and looking directly at Sand cannily,
Jack groans. "I notice you haven't gone away." He smirks sarcastically. "I
suppose this means I'm getting up..." He sighs a little. "Where are you
planning on taking me?" He swings his legs off the end of the bed, and
pulls his pants on slowly. "I was enjoying moping, thank you very much."

Nodding approvingly, Sanderson counters (also just a *bit* sarcastically),
"Good. Glad to see your perception's as keen as ever. We're going to get
you royally tanked. You look like you could use it." He wrinkles his nose,
running a hand through his hair, then dropping his arms to his sides. "You
*really* look like you could use it." Aside to the audience: Kids, don't
try this at home. Contrary to popular opinion, alcohol does *not* solve
all of life's problems!

Jack continues getting dressed. "Great, what fancy establishment have you
got in mind for me this time? I hear Arkham Asylum has started serving
drinks..." As he puts his shirt on, Jack remembers the last time he and
Sand went out to party. Gotham, of all places...and a dive called
Noonan's. Yeesh. I bet Sand really knows how to show a girl a good time,
with haunts like that in his repertoire. Finally getting his boots on,
Jack claps his hands together. "You know...if it were anyone else coming
in here, all shiny-happy-holding-hands, I probably would have told them
off. For some reason, you fit my mood about now..."

Sanderson grins. "Not sure if that's a compliment or an insult." He
glances at his watch, then sticks his hands in his pockets. "Whenever
you're ready," he says wryly, "it's your choice. There's a brewery in
downtown Manhattan with an adjacent bar, if you're in the mood for good
beer or an assortment of minimal-fuss levellers; if you're in the mood for
cesswater, there's a dive down on Canal Street. If, however,..." Sanderson
pauses, then his voice drops to levels of extreme distaste, "If you're in
the mood for a bunch of metahumans drinking trendy-yet-poorly-mixed
cocktails, we could always go to Warriors'."

Jack also grimaces exageratedly when Sanderson mentions Warriors. "I
promised myself I wouldn't set foot in that place again, if I didn't have
to. IO mean...the memorabelia's nice, but..." He closes his eyes and
shakes his head. "It's exactly what I dislike about the JLA and stuff. Now
they even have their own /bars/ to go to...forget about mingling with the
"commoners"...what's next? The superhero health-plan?" He starts to go to
the closet to retrieve the Rod, when he realizes it's no longer there. "I
hope you have a ride, 'cause I'm all out. I think I'll go look for a car
this weekend..." Instead, he stands toward the door. "Lead, on. This is
your choice. Do your worst..."

More than mildly surprised, but not letting his face reflect it, Sanderson
sees the lack of Cosmicness and immediately pieces together why. Good
thing. Asking would induce pain, likely. "Yeah," he says in response to
the JLA comment, heading out the door. "Yeah. I'm just wondering when this
whole," he gestures vaguely, encompassing the world of superheroics, "deal
got as inflated as it did. And, well, I don't fly or run fast or do
anything like that, so I hope you don't mind taking the Haitian raft
across the river and mucking around Manhattan at eleven in a deathtrap of
a car."

Jack smirks a little. Obviously Sand being around has cheered him
somewhat. Of course, it's difficult to stay mad with the guy who used to
call himself (proudly, even) Sandy, the Golden Boy near by. Every once in
a while, he catches himself thinking that name, over and over again when
he looks at Sanderson. Jack's dad told him a lot of stories about the kid,
being as close to Wes as he was, so Jack always has felt more of a kinship
to "Sandy" then the other probably realizes. Hell, when he was younger, he
wished that he had been his Dad's kid sidekick, doing exactly what
Sanderson used to. "Sounds like a plan, Stan." He walks out of the room.

Yadda yadda...it's not long before Our Heroes have left the Titans'
Island, crossed the Hudson, and are chugging along in an ancient Monte
Carlo. So it's not the epitome of style. So it's not the safest of cars.
Okay, so it looks like it'll melt in the rain - it gets Sanderson where
he's going, right? Eventually, he'll figure out where he wants to live
permanently, and then he'll get a real car. He parks it on the street -
after all, no one in their right mind would steal it. And even if they
did, Sand would only be out about $150. "Voila," he mutters under his
breath, taking the keys out of the ignition. "Yet another successful
journey completed." They're in front of the brewery.

Jack unclenches his whiteknuckled fingertips from the dashboard in front
of him, and wipes his forehead (trying to look nonchalant about the whole
thing) as they come to a stop. He laughs nervously "Uh..heh..heh...yeah.
We..uh..made it allright." Whispering a silent prayer to any god that will
hear him, he gives thanks. (Don't know which is worse...the fact that the
car backfired so loud it nearly gave a heart attack to that pedestrian
that passed us, or Sand's driving.) O o He thinks. "Okay...the brewery it
is." He opens the door to the car and steps out, happy to be on the
beautiful non-moving cement again. Then Jack waits, and allows Sand to
lead the way in.

Sanderson eyes Jack as he gets out of the car, frowning slightly. "Come
on. It's not like I tried to jump over an open bridge or anything." He
pockets his keys, not even bothering to lock the door. And no, he's not
gonna get tanked - *someone* has to drive back. Then he just rolls his
eyes and shakes his head, heading in the low door. Once he gets inside, he
lights a cigarette and offers the still-obviously-shaken Jack one, as
well. He gives the bartender a wave.

Jack nods to Sand's bridge comment as he takes the cigarette and checks
out the scene in one fluid motion. "Yeah...there's that...of course,
cutting off that bus of tourists was a little..." He stops and takes a
drag, as if reliving the scene all over again. Best not to bother people
about their driving. With most...it's at best a sore subject. "You having
anything?" He asks Sand as he saunters toward the bar, taking time to make
eyes with a nearby lovely lady.

"Only as much as I can metabolize in two hours," responds Sandy,
distracted. He looks at his watch again, just making sure of the time,
apparently. He goes up to the bar and raises his eyebrows. "Gimme that
stout you have...right? The roofing tar." He turns to glance at Jack,
"First step to eternal damnation's on me. After that, 's all you, brah."

Jack nods. "Yeah yeah." He feels his pants pockets for a second, and
checks his cash. A little light on the flow, but it should be enough for
the week or so before he starts eating guv'ment meals from his cell. He
sighs a little at the thought of it. "I'll have the same." He ribs Sand
for the bartender. "Anything good enough for this old coot's good enough
for me." He says confidently.

Making a face at the wiseass next to him, Sanderson just shakes his head
disgustedly. "Old coot...you young bastard." He looks sour until the beer
comes, then looks a lot better after a good solid mouthful. Actually, it's
probably fairly strange, this interplay - Sandy actually looks *younger*
than Jack. He still looked fifteen when he came out of it, and Jack was
very likely close to twenty. So whoever's within earshot is probably...ah,
hell, who'm I kidding? People make 'grandpa' comments all the time.

Grabbing his beer as well, Jack takes a deep sip...and...coughs. With foam
on his upper lip, he looks (all shock and dismay) at Sand. "What /is/ this
stuff?" He sets the mug down on the bar. "Tastes like old sweat socks." He
continues to make little sour faces until he realizes that (A.) They are
in public, with macho types all around, and (B.) There is also a certain
young lady sitting at the other end of the bar he's been checking out, who
is currently watching him. Ooooh boy. Jack ceases and desists with the
immaturity and becomes all smoothness. "Uh...I mean. It's good!" He puts
on a "manly" smile and offers a toast to Sand. "To beer, more beer, and
nothing but beer." He raises his glass.

Sanderson snorts. "Serves you right," he mutters, then grins, looking
sidelong at Jack. He keeps his voice low for the younger man's benefit:
"It's stout. Ever have Guinness? They make it even thicker here. Didn't
you hear me say roofing tar?" He takes another draught, then laughs
quietly. "Get something else. You'll be happier."

---PAUSE---
--UNPAUSE--

His brow furrowing slightly, Jack looks determined to stick it out.
"Naw...no beer is going to make a monkey out of me." He takes another sip
and tries to hide his "bitter beer face." With a little strain, it comes
out looking more like he has gas. "Ah...that's the stuff." He glances
around again, taking special notice of that same woman. "So...want to sit
down?" The words are directed at Sand, but he hasn't taken his eyes off
that gal.

Grinning positively wickedly, Sand just shakes his head. "No beer *has* to
make a monkey outta you, boyo," he laughs, and swings onto a barstool. He
eyes the subject of Jack's gaze. "Feeling better, I'm guessing? Or do I
actually have to make sure you get inebriated?"

Jack Knight continues making eyes. "Huh?" He's not listening in the least
bit.

Sand laughs, setting his glass down. He shoves Jack very lightly. "Go," he
says in a low voice, "buy her a drink or something."

Pitching forward slightly to the shove, Jack grins back at Sand, as he
realizes how long he's been staring. "Naw...it's allright. I was just
thinking about someone I haven't seen for a while." He gets that little
"off in the distance" look to him, but this time, he's looking nowhere in
particular. He comes to and sits down next to Sand. "Besides, the last
thing I need right now in my life to complicate it any more is Women." He
takes a long pull of his Guiness and sets it down. "Nope. Want to simplify
things as much as possible." Reaching into his coat pocket to grab a smoke
(after realizing his last one has long since burnt out in the ashtray) he
shakes one out from the soft pack and offers another one to Sand. "Let me
ask you something...how good does it look for me?"

Holding up a hand partially in thanks and partially in refusal, Sandy
grins slightly. "N'thanks; I'm honestly trying to cut back." Then he leans
on the counter with one elbow, but faces Jack, looking thoughtful. "I've
never been one to know much about law, so anything I said would be wild
guessing, with only a little information to back me up. Again, it would
help if you had any idea who might have a motive to do this...but hey, if
not, then I'll work with I've got."

Nodding thoughtfully, Jack says nothing for a brief moment. He takes
another long gulp and sets his glass down again. It's definitely an
acquired taste, and Jack seems to be acquiring it. He finally speaks.
"Yeah...that's what I've been thinking. We just don't know enough about
who might do something like this..." He lights his cigarette. "There's
either too many unknown enemies out there, or not enough alive to make
sense..." Taking a drag and carefully blowing the smoke upwards, he
directs his attention to Sand. "I mean, for you...it might be a little
easier to remember some of the M.O.'s of the guys you used to fight...you
were there...I don't even have my dad's scrap book anymore..."

Sand points out quietly, "You *do* have your dad, though." He falls silent
for a moment, then scratches his chin. "And at the moment, I can't think
of anyone who fits the bill: someone who'd have something against you or
your dad, has the power to do what happened, and has a hist-" Suddenly he
stops, frowning. "Actually...there was this guy...I can't remember when he
showed up, but he was always causing problems, and seemed to have it in
for your dad, mostly. Called himself the Mist. Is he still around?"

Jack closes his eyes for a full breath upon hearing The Mist's name pop
up. "Yeah...you could say that." He finishes the rest of his mug and
clunks the glass down heavily. Leaning his head and his arms on the bar,
Jack hides his head a little. "I was /hoping/ it wasn't her, actually." is
the muffled response.

A beat. Then, disbelievingly, "...her?" Sanderson just sort of stares at
Jack. "Um. So, wait. You had a suspicion that it was...the Mist...and you
didn't say anything? Jack, man..." He shakes his head.

Moving his head in agreement as much as he can from the cover of his two
arms, Jack seems to agree with Sand's sentiment. "I know, I know." He
moans slightly, and point to his mug, hoping that the bartender will get
the point. Gathering his strength, Jack raises up as the Bartender comes
over to fill his glass. He takes a drag and looks plainly at Sand. "I
don't think you really understand, man." He takes another drag and talks
as the smoke drifts out of his mouth. "She told me she wouldn't come back
for a year or two. It's possible that she might come back early...but I
just sort of doubt it. What she's got planned it bigger than this. It
involves my..." Jack stops and takes a drink as the glass is given back to
him. Maybe that's a story for another day. After gulping greedily at the
liquid, he continues. "I really do doubt it's her, anyway. The police said
that the place was blasted apart...Nash can't do that." He pauses,
considering, and then decides "No, I don't think she can..."

"...Nash, huh?" Sand gazes at Jack thoughtfully, a sort of twisted smile
tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Okay. Okay, I'm not gonna ask. But
you'd better be sure she can't do that, because you're riding on finding
out who did." He glances at the counter, suddenly remembering his drink,
then goes to finish it off.

"Yeah, Nash. My own personal nightmare. She's the daughter of the original
Mist that had such a mad-on for my Dad." He finishes his cigarette and
snuffs it in the ashtray, remembering, perhaps ironically, seeing Kyle
dead at his head. The last bit of smoke curls up past his face, ominously
akin to the subject up their conversation. "Yeah. I got a letter from her
about a month ago. She said she was in Europe. She'd be a little
more...obvious...about it." Inwardly, Jack doubts that he and Sand would
be able to have this conversation if Nash had already come back. "And her
Dad is a vegetable. I doubt he can go to the little super-villain's room
unassisted, let alone torch a building." He takes another drink, slowly
becoming aware of the buzz forming from the drink. "Anyone else you can
think of?"

"Mmm...I have to be honest, I didn't pay a *lot* of attention to your
dad's specific rogues gallery." Sanderson pauses, running back through
battles in his head, trying to think of *anyone*...then he shakes his
head. "Yeah, no. Most of the guys I busted up were Nazis, y'know? And
giant robots and magic mind controlled freakjobs. And this is just...this
is *not* Vandal Savage's MO, y'know? It wouldn't be him." He stops again,
then peers at Jack. "You don't mind if I look into this 'Nash', on my own,
do you?"

Finishing off his second mug, Jack laughs loudly when Sand mentions the
"Golden Days". He imagines his own life as an adventurer hasn't been too
different actually. As "Nash" comes up again in conversation, Jack sets
the heavy mug down loudly on the bar. His face darkens. "You don't want to
do that, Sand." This is as serious as Jack has /ever/ looked.

Hm. This is different. Watching Jack carefully, Sanderson fails to react
obviously. If you were a crazy detective like Batman, or could read body
language like a pro, you'd note that he'd tensed very slightly and set his
jaw, but was suppressing these hints. His eyes are still clear and
easygoing, but his voice has a strange cant to it, an odd note of
something that could be worry, or could be stubbornness, or could be
something else entirely. "Sure. But if it turns out to be her and you end
up in the slammer, don't come crying to me."

Jack just stares at Sanderson for a moment. His face lightening a little,
but still intent. "I'd rather end up in the slammer, thanks." He frowns
slightly, a little pissed. "And don't worry about me...I'll take care of
myself, thank you very much." He turns his head away from his friend and
takes another gulp of beer. Apparently the tension has risen between the
two about 50 notches. More than a little odd...

Total silence from Sanderson for a good ten, fifteen seconds, and then he
lets out a breath quickly, almost a laugh, almost a sigh. "I'm sorry," he
says frankly. "I guess I made your business my business quite a bit more
than I should have." Running a hand slowly and kind of rougly through his
hair, then dropping it to the counter again, he suddenly looks infinitely
tired. "No worries, no more prying from me." He pauses, then finally looks
back at Jack, hoping the guy'll turn his head. Oh, damn, this is hard.
"...forgive me?"

Giving his own count of about 3, Jack finally turns and regards Sanderson,
face is still a little sour. He takes a long gulp, finishing his third
mug, and really can't recall at this point ever /not/ liking the taste.
"To be honest, Sandy? I was more worried /about/ you than worried about my
business. I appreciate the offer...I just don't think she did it. I'd be a
lot busier if it was her. She's a nutjob, and more than likely going to be
the death of me someday...I'd just prefer that I didn't drag anyone else
down with me." He slaps Sand's shoulder roughly. "'Specially not a cool
cat like yerself." He grins, happily.

"Pfft," responds Sand, looking wry. "From old coot to cool cat in ten
minutes...not bad." He shakes his head. Glory, was that close. Now, it's
not that Sanderson doesn't take Jack's warning seriously - in fact,
*trusting* Jack that he'd know this Nash well enough to be this positive
she didn't do it, he probably *won't* make inquiries. It just didn't sit
well. That kind of thing never does. He smiles lopsidedly. "C'mon, we
gotta get more in you than *that*."

Beer before liquor, never been sicker? If only Jack remembered that rhyme,
he might avoid what's probably going to happen tomorrow morning. He thinks
for a second. "I'll match ya. Straight shots or Mixers?" He raises his
hand for the bartender, waving him over and looks to see what Sand wants.
Down at the other end of the bar, the young lady Jack was noticed has been
joined by a friend. They both appear to be talking about our handsome
heroes.

"Oh god," says Sand, making a face. "No. I'm driving, remember? You want
me to drive *worse* than I did on the way here, and get arrested? Nuh-uh."
Weird. As badass as he seems to be, or maybe tries to be, he's still got
the responsible kid in him somewhere. Probably a lot closer to the surface
than he's like to admit. And people wonder why he's enthusiastic about
some things. But he's also a cheerfully sadistic bastard, so..."But I'll
pay if you let me tell him what to mix." He grins.

"Deal." Jack says after some consideration. The mugs appear to have
loosened his judgement enough that this sounds like a good idea. What can
he lose? "But one day, you and I are gonna get royally lit." He winks at
Sand, and then notices the ladies at the end of the bar again. "Check it
out, man...think they're talking about us?" He actually does sort of
wonder, even though it's fairly obvious. Never can tell how much of his
perception is due to the alcohol.

Sand shakes his head solemnly at Jack. "No, bud, I think they're talking
about pro wrestling." He flags the bartender down, then grins. "Mix this
guy up a Gorilla Fart, willya?" Yeah. One part Everclear, one part 151,
and one part Jaegermeister. This puppy's gonna stick it to Jack's kidneys
in a most righteous and profound fashion. Then he glances at the chicks,
and raises his eyebrows. He returns his attention to the task at hand.

Shortly, the bartender comes over and puts the glass in front of Jack.
"Enjoy, kid." He states gruffly. Jack looks quizzicly at Sanderson.
"Uh...am I going to need to hold my nose for this?" He looks down at his
glass suspiciously...and cautiously takes a sip. The face he makes in
response to the taste almost has to be seen rather than described. It's
something akin to a toddler's first taste of a dill pickle. "*cough*
You've gotta be kiddin' me right? People drink this...for fun?" The ladies
at this point start openly flirting with Sand, if he's paying
attention...Jack's a little absorbed in drink, at the moment.

Sand shakes his head, sitting back against the bar, hands clasped across
his stomach. He grins. "No. People drink that when they wanna get drunk."
He eyes the women, and smiles wryly. Right. Not gonna mess with that
tonight, no siree.

Jack takes another drink. His taste buds are a little dead at the moment,
so he's able to stomach it a little easier.

Jack takes another drink. His taste buds are a little dead at the moment,
so he's able to stomach it a little easier. "Heh heh. This reminds me of
this time..." He starts to chuckle, and it's that giddy chuckle that
accompanies many a "crazy night". "10 years old. Raided Dad's liqour *heh
heh* cabinet. *hee hee* Didn't know what to *ha ha* drink. Just dumped
everything into one of those 7-11 cups and drank the whole thing." He
wipes a tear from his eye. "I was *heh heh* sick for two days..." He takes
another long drink and follows Sand's gaze toward the ladies again. He
winks, and they makes their way over to where the two guys are sitting.

Sand very, very quietly facepalms. Yep. Face into hand, in the ultimate
visual signal of the expression 'Aw, *maaaan*...' Talk about a long drink,
huh? The two girls're attraactive, to say the least. They're just not
exactly what're *needed* right now, considering Jack's state of mind, and
now his current condition. Not that Sandy's blaming anyone but himself -
that's what active encouragement's all about, no? He looks up, and
dubiously at Jack, then shakes his head and inhales briefly as they
approach. "Evening, ladies," he says easily. Oh, damn, no, Sand - turn
*off* the charm. Off, I say!

Two women, yup, they're trouble in high heels. The blonde pulls up a stool
next to Jack. Her tight little outfit presses closely against her
well...er...defined body. Black Velvet, like the drink, descibes her
entire outfit. The other is a fiery redhead...she sits next to Sand, and
lights up a smoke almost immediately after sitting down. She's wearing
this sort of silver/grey pants suit. Very modern. Jack, all friendly-like,
puts his arm around the girl next to him almost immediately. "Wha's your
name, darlin'?" He states, speaking very closely to her. The girl takes
this all in stride. My name's Veronica." She purrs and then points to her
friend. "That's Harriet."

Ohh, /fudge/, thinks Sanderson, not now. On the other hand... "Got a light
for me?" asks Sand of Harriet, smiling crookedly and fishing a smoke out
of his shirt pocket. Um, he really is trying to cut back, see, it's just
that this is a special occasion. Sure. At least he hasn't had one lit the
whole time, right? Otherwise, he lets the drunk guy speak for the both of
them. Man...Jack owes him a fight, now. Yes, this is a spontaneous
decision, and it's only because he really...well, he could really use some
wrongdoer to beat on at the moment. Normally, Sanderson would have *no*
problem with a couple dishes like this. It's just that complications
aren't great right now. Maybe he *should* be getting drunk.

Veronica smiles and lays a velvet glove against Jack's cheek. "You're
cute." She states softly. Jack is about to say something (stupid?
charming?) when he stops suddenly, and gets that far off look in his eyes
again. He just downs the rest of his drink and then looks deeply into
Veronica's eyes, or appears to. She stares back into his, smiling. Harriet
takes out a plain silver Zippo and lights Sand's cig in one smooth motion.
She's definitely a woman of /skill/. Very athletic body, as opposed to
Veronica's soft one. She takes a drag and looks at Sanderson. "So...you
guys going to tell us your names?"

Hmming quietly when he sees that look on Jack's face - that
not-particularly-safe look - it takes Sand a second before his attention's
snapped back to Harriet. He inhales, filling up his lungs with a mixture
of smoke and perfume, then exhales slowly and raises an eyebrow. "He's
Jack. He's also halfway to wasted. I'm Sand." He pauses, looking Harriet
over again, then looks bemused. "And you look dangerous."

"I've been told that before...Sand." She blows smoke in his face, but
somehow it appears more of a challenge than rudeness. "What kind of name
is that anyway?" She leans against the bar and raises an eyebrow at
Sanderson. There's a definite pause as she regards him. Then Veronica
clears her throat, from the other side of Jack. "Why don't we get out of
here...go somewhere a little more...private?" Jack nearly immediately nods
acquiescence as she gently strokes his face. "Uh...sure." He moans softly,
his drink is done. Harriet snuffs her cigarrette prematurely at the
suggestion, and stands up.

Yeah, and Jack said he could take care of himself. Sure. Sure! So why does
Sand suddenly feel like a babysitter? Well, because he is, at this point.
Jack trusted him enough to get royally sloshed, there, with Sandy being
the less-fscked-in-the-head one, so it's Sandy's responsibility to make
sure Jack doesn't get mugged by a couple of gorgeous broads. Right. It's
perfect logic, I tell you. Flawless. Heh heh heh. Sanderson stands, calmly
extinguishing his cigarette before putting his hat and jacket back on,
then raises his eyebrows. "It's my name, is what it is." He glances at
Jack, and sighs inwardly. Shoulda let him stay in bed.

Jack leans heavily on Veronica, who sort of staggers to the door trying to
hold him up. "Oh...heh heh....sorry." Is all he can manage to say.
Veronica coos softly and leads the way out the door to the street, having
left some money to pay the tab on the way out. "Ooooh, good one." Harriet
mutters under her breath, smirking at Sand. The she follows the other two
and looks back briefly "Coming?" before heading out the door.

"Oh, f'r cryin' out loud," mutters the blond guy, shoving his hands in his
pockets and following Betty and Veron- er, Harriet and Veronica. Oh, man!
THAT's who she reminded him of! Man, cartoon chicks. What next? And
actually, where next? He looks uncertainly at his car, then at the girls.
Then at Jack. Ohh, boy.

As Sand comes out of the door, someone attempts to strike him with a large
hammer to the head!

It's a *damn* good thing he's kept his reflexes good. Reflexes and danger
signals, man. As soon as he sees motion in his peripheral vision and hears
the beginning of that telltale whistle of wind, Sandy dives into a
somersault and lands on his feet, spinning to face his agressor(s?). All
in a fluid motion, he crosses his arms over his stomach, drawing both his
wirepoon and gasgun from their holsters on his sides. "Jack?" he calls,
wondering where the hell the drunken Starman's got to. Well, looks like
driving's not the only reason it's a good thing he decided to take it easy
on the alcohol tonight.

Well..it's definitely an...agressor. It's Harriet. She holds in her hand a
large ballpeen hammer, with another larger sledge strapped to her back.
Dang, she must be fast to suddenly have all these weapons, or they must
have been stashed nearby. "You /are/ good. This'll be fun." She sneers at
Sandy. The...er...inebriated Starman is being...well...mounted by Veronica
nearby in the parking lot. She appears to be rifling through his pants
pockets with one hand, as her other continues (strangely) touching his
face. He makes no effort to stop her. "You're in for it now, hotstuff."
With her statement, Harriet leaps toward Sand, aiming another hammer blow
at him.

"Only the best," says Sanderson, grinning almost ferally. Looks like the
gods *do* listen, even if they have a funny way of taking care of
business. He waits until Harriet's almost upon him, then ducks and kicks
upwards at her hand, spinning on the foot that's still touching the
ground. "Jack!" he yells, irritated, but more with himself than with the
old school punk rocker. "Dammit, get up!" He doesn't take the risk of
looking at his friend, instead keeping his eyes on Harriet, waiting for a
good shot, getting ready to hold his breath.

The kick knocks Harriet off balance, and she loses her grip on the hammer,
which smashes into a nearby car window. She staggers and leans against it
as well, instead pulling out two smaller hammers from side-holsters and
tossing them at Sand. "Hai!" she screams as the tools fling toward their
intended target. Veronica, finding Jack's money, stands up now, finally
taking her arm off his face. Instead, she raises a heel to smash against
his face. "Hammer, what the hell is taking you so long?" she calls over to
her friend as she looks evilly down at the helpless Jack. "I've got the
money, I don't even need my Velvet Touch to take care of him. Whatta
lush." She raises her foot and prepares to strike.

A look of *supreme* irritation on his face, Sanderson ducks again, wincing
as the hammers fly through his side windows. So maybe having an old car is
good after all. He pulls the triggers on both guns at the same time - gas
up in Harriet's face, wirepoon aimed at Velvet's arm - nearly instantly
(LOVE those reflexes) he sucks his breath in and yanks at the 'poon, a
move that *should* cause the line to double back around the woman's wrist
and wrap it like bolos, stopping her from smashing Jack's face in. It
should work. Hopefully.

Luckily, Jack doesn't need plastic surgery. Sand's wirepoon managed to
snatch "Veronica Velvet" away from him seconds before she brought her foot
down for the crushing blow. She wheels, off-balance, to the ground with an
"Oof!" Jack is still sort of lying there. "Wha's hoppening?" He states to
no one in particular. "Sand, where are you? I don' feel so..." The pissed
drunk Starman, who is supposed to be an example for youth everywhere,
instead trails off in a haze. "Harriet The Hammer" however, is pretty
quick herself, and ducks to avoid the gas as much as she can, still
catching a little whiff of it as she pulls out the Sledge. Seeing Veronica
taken down, she growls slightly as she swings toward Sand. "Ronnie!"

Not letting go of that 'poon for -one single second-, Sanderson keeps it
reeling in inexorably, keeping Ronnie occupied while he deals with the
Hammer chick. He raises his eyebrows as she pulls out the sledgehammer,
then smirks ever so slightly. "Would you quit it if I admitted that your
weapon was bigger than mine?" Again he waits for her to rush him, except
this time she should be slower, it's heavier, maybe she won't be able to
duck or dodge in time...and he fires once more. He really, really does not
want to hit her.

The second gas burst hits the target dead center. Harriet's swing is slow
and clumsy, and this second dose of "knock-out" gas certainly doesn't
help. The sledge goes wide, which of course, hits the car, making a nice
dent in the door. Harriet makes a nice dent in her own face as she drops
to the ground, asleep and dreaming courtesy of Mr. Sand-man. Veronica
struggles in vain, against the wirepoon, and manages to stand. Finally,
rather than running away she runs toward Sanderson with an outstretched
hand. "C'mere baby."

Jack begins snoring loudly.

Holding out his arms as if in glorious welcome, Sand waits there with a
big grin on his face as she sprints for him like a bat outta hell. Yes,
his car is directly behind him. Yes, as soon as she's too close for her to
counteract her momentum, he swiftly steps - almost flinches - aside and
lets her careen into his car. It won't knock her out, but it'll set her
offbalance, likely - give him a chance to twist her arm behind her back,
keeping his insteps well away from her high heels, use up the last bit of
knockout gas in the gun. It may be a cop out, but Sandy's not a chick
puncher. Not by a long shot.

Well...things didn't really go according to plan for poor old Veronica.
Hoping to touch him into submission, she's surprised by Sand's quick
movements. She's not really the physical one of the two, and hitting the
car alone pretty much does it for her. She falls to the ground and
whimpers. No gas or any other moves needed form Sanderson, she gives
herself up. Jack is still over toward another grouping of cars, snoring
away.

Sand shakes his head, sighing. Now, see, with Jack on this sort of
probation thing he's on, and with the fact that for now, Sand would much
rather lay low, Justice(tm) is gonna have to take a backseat to
Practicality(tm). With quick looks to see whether anyone's watching - and
they're not - he carefully picks up each girl in turn and gently leaves
them in a nearby doorway. Then with a grimace, he drags Jack to his car,
sweeps the glass out of the back seat, and half-lifts, half dumps him in.
Standing, then cracking his back, Sanderson mutters to himself, "Y'know, I
really *should* know better." With that, he shuts the car door, gets in
the other side, and starts back for the Tower.